Hooded eyes glinting in the darkness, Paul Richmann sat on a wrathered
boulder overlooking the city below. His thumb blindly traced tiny circles
over smoothed metal, like a silent litany, feeling the faint impress of
engraved initials on the back of the casing. The lights of the city flickered
and danced like the worshippers at temples, electric light not yet having
reached Port-au-Prince.
Though he looked out over the city on a balmy night, Richmann's eyes
did not see the dancing flames.
They didn't see the sparkling stars that fell from the heavens into
the inky night-time waters of the Caribbean.
They saw...

The building was an ancient red brick tenement, with mould staining
the walls. Red and green should never be seen, it was said, and the corners
of Richmann's thin lips turned up slightly at the thought of old superstition
It was certainly the landlord's unlucky day.
Iron railings sprouted from the tarmac in front of the building, and
Richmann tapped a few of them experimentally on his way long to the door,
recalling how a stick bounced from them when running past almost a quarter
of a century ago. The thought was distracting, so he shoved it away into
the darker recesses of his mind, returning his full attention to the door
which he was approaching.
It was time-worn now, the paint peeling, the overhang fallen away from
each step bellow. He had been told that it now creaked a bit, unless the
edge was held near the top. Wrapping gloved fingers around the edge. he
slowly opened it, and stepped into the dusty hallway, pulling the door
closed. He stood for a moment, letting a faint thrill run through him,
as the musty scent of the hall brought long-dormant memories to mind.
His pulse quickened in anticipation as he heard a faint groaning of
wood from above. He glanced at the old clock on die wall, noting that it
was five to twelve. He recalled that the old man always used return at
midday, and had discovered from discreet enquiries that this was still
the case.
Glancing only briefly to either side, he jogged up the stairs as lightly
as a cat.
The apartment was exactly as he remembered it, from the tatty curtains,
to the table propped up with a book, a stuffed armchair, sagging with age,
was off to one side, back to the door. Richmann scowled, not liking the
idea of having his back to a door, but nevertheless settled into the chair.
With quick, silent movements, he slid a charger in the breech of a large
automatic pistol, a Steyr 19I2, and clipped a magazine into the butt. The
gun sitting heavy and and cold and in his hand he sat back, ears listening
carefully for any sound from outside.
It was several minutes before he heard it - the door below cracking
open then shut.
Wearied footfalls on the stairs.
The door behind slipping open.
A grizzled, yet still quite large figure, passed by to his left, and
stumped off towards the other room. A few vague shuffling noises came through
the open door, and then the figure returned this time without its coat.
The old man stopped in astonishment, as he saw Richmann sitting confortably
in the armchair. Is that you, Paul?" he asked incredulously.
Richmann nodded wordlessly, and levelled the gun at the old man's chest.
"It's so good to see you! Ever since you... had your falling-out with
those men and left, your mother and I -"
"I heard she died," Richmann stated softly.
"Yes, yes," the old man nodded nervously. His face reflected grief,
but the tone of his voice hinted at something darker. "Her legs were no
longer what they were; she fell..."
"So I heard. I received a letter, from her recently, you know. Do you
you want me to read it to you? I have it here."
"I... don't think that'll be necessary."
"I thought not. I still have the scars, of course, but I presume you
won't need to see them either?
"No." The old man's voice was very quiet.
"Good. Richmann smiled wanly, "I haven't got all day."

If the other residents heard the sharp retorts, they either were wise
enough to pay no attention, or idly put it down to the gleaming automobile
- still something of a rarity even in Philadelphia - that squatted outside.
In a few moments, Richmann emerged from the red brick building, and
got into the back seat of the car, which drove off.
"You saw him?" asked the man who sat next to Richmann.
"Wilhelm? For the last time, General, and just long enough to collect
what was left to me."
Richmann held a small pocket watch up by its chain. "Why did you come?"
"I've been curious about you since we met in Africa."
"And are you satisfied?"
"Not really."
"Good." Richmann looked out at the city as it passed them by. "I'd forgotten
how cold it can get here."
"No matter; we'll be in warmer clime soon enough."

The slim white trails of jet aircraft now crossed the sky in place of
falling stars, but the country was much the same. Apparently unaffected
by the heat, a tall man strode through the gently waving sisal, his eyes
glued to the dial on a little box on his hand. "Haven't the Americans got
their own people to find bits of rockets?" he called.
"Quite a lot of them," came the measured answer from the nearby road
side, "but none with your... qualifications, Doctor."
"I suppose not," the Doctor muttered irritably, glancing back to where
sunlight gleamed from the shoulder pips of a moustachioed man leaning against
a jeep. "I warned you this would not do anything except delay my repairs
to the TARDIS."
"Oh come on, don't tell me you still think you'll get that old Police
Box working?"
"Of course I - " He broke off as the needle quivered on the dial. "Just
a minute Brigadier, I think I've found something." He knelt down, bending
some of the sisal out of the way, to reveal a dull gleam set into the earth.
As the Brigadier jogged over, the Doctor dug out the piece of metal
with a Swiss Army knife. "Any luck, Doctor?"
The Doctor examined the piece of metal, noting the faintness of the
engraved letters 'W.R.' on the back. He flipped open the lid, weighing
it it thoughtfully in his hand as he stared at the still hands coated with
dust. "No," he said, reburying it after a moment's thought. "We'd best
keep looking."